


Paints Me Blue

by padfootprophet



Series: found family fics [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, But he's trying, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne-centric, Dick Grayson is Batman, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26578543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padfootprophet/pseuds/padfootprophet
Summary: Growing up in the League Damian had no place for soulmates. An assassin should be devoted to the mission above all else. He didn't expect things to be so different in Gotham, after all, wasn't Batman's mission just as important?(Written for the found family bingo prompt: platonic soulmates)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Others
Series: found family fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899400
Comments: 13
Kudos: 214
Collections: Dick & Damian, Found Family Bingo, everybody loves dick





	Paints Me Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I've always liked the idea that soulmates are earned rather than destined, and that that bond can be gained or lost. From there it just makes sense that soul marks are temporary rather than permanent, so that's how it works in this fic.  
> Title is a reference to a Something Corporate song.

Although he would never admit it, Damian is hesitant when he enters the Batcave. His father had essentially barred him from entering, had found him lacking no matter how he attempted to prove himself a worthy heir to the Batman. Bruce Wayne had always opposed him, and whilst Grayson's invitation for training feels overdue, the shadow of his father looms in his thoughts, imposing as only Batman could be.

He cannot let that show though, not with Grayson and Drake waiting within, neither as deserving of their place in the cave as he. And if Grayson wants to spar, well, Damian will prove just how worthy of Batman's legacy he is.

He draws himself tall as he steps from the elevator into the cave, all possibilities of inadequacy masked behind his training from the League, but he still falters for half a step as he comes to the mats where Grayson and Drake face off.

Whilst the latter wears long sleeves, only exposing his face and hands. The former has no such shame and is sparring in a loose tank, his bare skin mottled with a rainbow of marks; those old and fading overlapped with newer, brighter colours, like a canvas painted by a child.

Damian stops, and sneers.

In the League, Grayson would have been put to death for displaying soul marks so brazenly. To devote even a fraction of your soul to anything but the mission, the League, Ra's al Ghul's vision, was an affront. To form a soul bond with someone was an admission of weakness and to form a bond with so many rendered one useless, _worthless_.

Even as Damian watches Drake's hand finds an opening in their spar, a spot against Grayson's shoulder, and a new mark blooms on the skin there—shining brilliant gold over a fading red. Damian can identify other points of contact, and each of them is echoed in splashes of sky blue across the skin of Drake's hands.

It is clear that neither of them has the dedication required to actually make a difference in Gotham, to further his father's mission; not when they are so busy caring about each other. A scoff sits on Damian's tongue, a snide remark ready to let go, when Grayson turns to look at him with a tight smile.

"Damian, glad you joined us," he says, dropping from his stance. Drake follows suit, and notably doesn't glance Damian's way, even as he brushes past him towards the Batcomputer. "Are you ready to show me what you know?"

"Tt." Damian steps lightly onto the mats, still taking in the array of marks that cover almost every inch of Grayson's arms. "Certainly more than you."

Grayson raises an eyebrow. "I've been doing this longer than you've been alive."

Damian doesn't point out how little that matters in the face of his League training, or how Grayson's obvious weaknesses will undo him. He puts the words into his actions, lunging forward, determined, only to find Grayson moves quicker than expected and is behind Damian before he can react.

"Don't get cocky, young grasshopper," Grayson says. "You can still learn something." He ducks away from Damian's strike even whilst he's running his mouth. "That's why you're here."

Damian watches, with his eyebrows pinched in a scowl, as Grayson paints concealer over the sunshine yellow mark that spans his jaw and neck, sharply contrasted by the grey of the suit beneath. It was reckless for Nightwing to allow so many people the influence of a soul bond, as Batman it is idiotic. Damian has pointed out as much multiple times only for Grayson to wave off his concerns as though they are something childish, but now they are delayed in even patrolling because of Grayson's irresponsibility.

"You know," Grayson says, meeting Damian's eyes briefly in the mirror, "If you keep frowning like that your face will get stuck."

If the comment is intended as levity it falls short, only serving to deepen the glower Damian offers the man. "I am merely contemplating your inadequacies," Damian says. "If you insist on masquerading as my father the least you could do is take your duties seriously."

"You think Bruce was above this?" Grayson gestures to the mark, mostly covered, the concealer imperceivable except for the slight difference in texture Damian can only identify because of his close proximity. It would work well enough in the shadows of Gotham's night and the flurry of any action.

"Tt. Of course." Damian had studied his father extensively, through pictures and videos, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. He had never seen any marks, and had not been surprised. His mother spoke highly of Bruce Wayne's devotion to his mission, in the same way every member of the League was devoted to theirs.

Except he feels his assumptions stripped away under Grayson's pitying eyes. "When I was twelve," Grayson says, returning his focus to covering the remaining yellow, "we ran into a new strain of fear toxin. Of course, back then most of the strains were new, and highly unstable. Bruce protected me from the worst of it, but he got hit with a full dosage." He turns his face from one side to the other, checking for any missed spots. "I had to get him out of there, back to the cave. He _knew_ he wouldn't be able to make it back alone.

"I think most people expected Batman to leave black marks, but when I held his hand I wasn't surprised mine came away marked with white."

"So my father shared in your weakness," Damian says, carefully keeping his tone neutral, indifferent. "What of it?"

"It's a strength, Damian." Grayson places the concealer back in his locker, and pulls free the cape. The black fabric hangs between them until Grayson sets it over his shoulders. "It allows us to do what we have to every time we put on our suits, knowing that someone will bring us home."

He pulls the cowl over his face, checking in the mirror once more as it settles in place over the concealed mark. "I have had to trust Flash with my life countless times, I have _chosen_ to trust him." He runs a thumb over the concealer, seemingly content when it does not shift or smudge. "And I will have to, and I will choose to again in the future. That's what this mark represents."

"It is still a needless risk," Damian insists. "If you compromise your identity you compromise this entire operation."

Grayson sighs. "If it makes you feel better I'll make sure Wally wears gloves next time we spar."

The statement does nothing but confirm to Damian that Grayson is too reliant on others to ever truly succeed as Batman. It drives home why Damian would be a better fit for the mantle, perhaps even better than his father was. He holds back the argument though, it is one they have circled through too often for him to think he can change Grayson's mind. "If you're finished," he says instead, "we are already running late."

Damian's head pounds as he comes to consciousness. He slowly takes stock of the aches throughout his body, the dryness in his mouth, the stiff bed under his back, and the soft blanket over his body. When he opens his eyes he's unsurprised to see the ceiling of the bunker overhead, although he's uncertain how he got there. The last memory he has is of fighting Poison Ivy, of thorns tearing into his skin. There are bandages wrapped around large areas of his body now; most of his arms, his torso, even his legs.

He turns his head to one side, hoping Pennyworth—or whoever had patched him up—had the common sense to leave some water, and finds Grayson slumped in a chair at the bedside, Batsuit replaced by a worn hoodie, head dropped in sleep.

Damian makes to rouse Grayson, to ask what happened, only for a dry wheezing sound to escape his throat instead. There is, at least, a bottle of water on the side table, although reaching for it pulls at his wounds and Damian hisses with pain.

Between the pained sounds and the creak of the bed beneath him he apparently makes enough noise to wake Grayson, because the man blinks to awareness, lifting one hand to rub at his eyes, the other curled in the pocket of his hoodie. "You're awake," he says, when his eyes come into focus and find Damian's open ones. "You had me worried there, running off into Ivy's plants like that. You're lucky she pulled back the attack when you went down. Apparently murdering you wasn't on her to-do list."

Damian opens his mouth to speak, to defend himself from Grayson's chastising, only to find his throat still too dry for anything more than half-formed words. "I—" he croaks. "The— a ca—" He scrunches his eyes closed against the threat of tears; the pain, the frustration, and Grayson's evident disappointment crushing down on him.

"Here," Grayson says. When Damian blinks his eyes open again there's a bottle of water held in front of him, although when he grips it Grayson snatches his hand away with unusual speed. Like he's worried Damian will lash out; like he's still some rabid beast, some League puppet.

"There's something else," Grayson says quietly, when Damian has worked enough water through his throat it no longer scratches. "A thorn tore off in your arm and I couldn't get enough purchase with the gloves on. I didn't think... didn't expect..." He sighs, hunches over himself.

Damian frowns. His arms feel fine, cuts and bandages aside, but Grayson speaks as though he's lost something, has been injured beyond that. He pulls at the bandages around his left arm and finds nothing, then moves to unwrap those around his right.

The skin around his elbow is blue, not from bruising, but a familiar sky blue he's seen on Drake's hands, on Gordon's, once on Pennyworth's when he'd forgone his usual gloves. Damian stares. Grayson moves as though to reach across the space between them.

"Don't touch me," Damian spits, messily wrapping the bandages back around his arm, running over Grayson's words. He didn't think, didn't _expect_ Damian to care, to have formed a bond, despite his own obvious attachment. Damian cannot blame him.

Still, he's gratified when Grayson pulls back, when his face falls. "I just want you to know it's not a _bad_ thing, Damian. Batman and Robin should trust each other. Completely. It... this makes our partnership stronger."

Damian is too shaken to answer, mind reeling from the idea he's formed a soul bond with anyone, let alone with Grayson. He pulls the bandage tight over the blue marks, tight enough to sting, and sips at his water.

Grayson sighs. "I'll send Alfred to check on you. And... we can wear gloves. If you'd prefer."

It's only as he's walking away Damian realises he doesn't even know what colour his mark has left on Grayson's skin. He'd kept his hand hidden throughout the conversation. He'd suggested gloves. Maybe he was ashamed of Damian's mark. If people had expected Bruce Wayne's darkness to reflect in his mark where did that leave Damian? Was his soul not black? Or was it stained red with the blood of all those he'd killed?

The thought follows him for the nine days it takes for Grayson's mark to fade from his skin. Damian keeps count even as he keeps it covered, along with most other exposed skin. Grayson similarly keeps to himself, wearing gloves around the house and minimising his contact with Damian even then.

It shouldn't leave Damian feeling so bereft. He had spent months sneering at Grayson for his soul bonds, cautioning him against allowing people to mark him so freely. But he'd grown used to Grayson's casual touch—ruffling his hair after a good move during sparring, setting a heavy hand on his shoulder at the end of a long night, offering him a fist bump when they finished up a case. Damian had rolled his eyes at every moment, not knowing he would, or could, miss them.

He's still at a loss of how to express as such when Grayson is stabbed by one of Two-face's rent-a-thugs. It should be laughable that someone so lowly could get close enough and lucky enough to get an incapacitating blow on Batman, but Damian knows Grayson had been protecting him when it happened and all he's left with is guilt as he sits by Grayson's bedside in the bunker.

Thompkins had done her job well, with Pennyworth's assistance, and Grayson was simply sleeping now rather than bleeding out, chest bare except for the bandage stretched over the stitched skin.

Gone are the rainbow of colours that were once scattered across his arms. In fact, most of his skin is free of marks. There's a fading patch of maroon across one hand and wrist—a remnant from the last time he visited Oracle—and a few marks of silver—left in patches where Pennyworth had not been wearing gloves. The brilliant spectrum of the once-Titans is missing, so much time spent in Gotham, devoted to Batman and to Damian's training that Grayson hasn't been around anyone else in months.

Damian's guilt gnaws deeper into his stomach. How often had he questioned Grayson's loyalty to the cause, to Bruce Wayne's mission? He chews at his lip and glances around the bunker, but it's only himself and Grayson down here—no butler, no doctor, no friends or family. He carefully peels a glove from one hand and reaches it out, hesitating with fingers inches from Grayson's skin. He closes the gap slowly, half expecting Grayson to wake up just in time to pull away, but there's only stillness, even as Damian curls his fingers around Grayson's forearm, carefully avoiding a bruise left from another night.

He would never admit to the reassurance he feels at the warmth in the contact. Grayson sleeps so still he could be dead, but the warm skin echoes with life underneath Damian as he pulls back, tucking sky blue fingers against themselves and focusing on the patch of green spread over Grayson's arm.

For a second, with the dim phosphorescent lighting of the bunker half blocked by his shadow, it looks like the green of the Lazarus pit and Damian feels his gut clench, but then he shifts to get a better look at the colour and it resolves into something far more alive: the green of trees in full bloom, of lush grass, of the Robin suit. He stares unblinking. A deep unspoken part of him had expected his soul to be too tainted by the League to ever look like this.

But no one there had ever cared about his soul the way Grayson does.

He stuffs his hand back into his glove and leaves before he can be caught, knowing it's foolish to assume no one will notice the mark he's left behind.

Grayson regains consciousness without fanfare, so it takes Damian by surprise when the knock at his bedroom door isn't Pennyworth. He sits up straighter in the window seat where he'd been reading, and curls his fingers into fists against the book in his lap even though the blue marks are covered by his glove.

Grayson is notably _not_ wearing gloves, smiling kindly at Damian as though he's unaware the expression always precedes some uncomfortable or emotional discussion. The predictability of what's coming has Damian curling his shoulders forward.

"Can I come in?" Grayson asks.

Damian nods, apprehensive, and watches as Grayson crosses into the room and leans against the desk, carefully setting Damian's pencils aside so he doesn't knock them to the floor. He's wearing a hoodie again, covering the patch of green painted over his forearm.

"You were right, you know," Grayson says after a long moment.

"Tt." It's easy enough to release his tension through carefully barbed words. "I am frequently right. You rarely show the sound judgement to admit it."

It does little to move the smile from Grayson's face, if anything it pushes it further, so much that Grayson's cheeks twitch with it. "There is always a risk that a soul mark will compromise us, that we'll forget to cover one up or gain a new one fighting alongside an ally and all our secrets will unravel."

"Obviously." In the honesty of Damian's mind, he can acknowledge that the risk soul marks posed to maintaining a secret identity had always bothered him less than the implicit emotional attachment that comes with them. When he'd used the logic to chastise Grayson he had been shying away from the actual issue. He thinks perhaps Grayson saw through it then, or that he does now, but he's _giving_ Damian the upper hand.

Grayson taps out an uneven rhythm against the wood of Damian's desk. "Bruce used to caution me about being less open with them. He frequently attempted to get me to wear sleeves more often."

"And I assume you never heeded his advice."

"Not once." He stills his fingers and then slowly pushes up the sleeve of his hoodie, bunching it above his elbow and uncovering the green mark on his arm—Damian's mark. "I liked the marks too much. They were a physical reminder that people cared for me, as much and as deeply as I cared for them. Maybe I felt like it made up for the loss of my parents, maybe I was just insecure. Maybe I still am." He runs a thumb over the patch of green. "It's always made me stronger, though."

Damian fixes his gaze on the book in his lap, although the words look meaningless to him in his introspection. "I am glad to see you have recovered," he mutters stiffly. The sentimentality of the words nearly choke him. "The city would likely have fallen apart with Batman absent for much longer."

"I'm sure Gotham would be fine without me." Grayson pushes upright, and from the corner of his eye, Damian watches him stuff his hands into his pockets and rock on his heels. "It has you."

"And you would entrust me with the task of looking out for it?"

"You've come a long way, little robin."

Damian squeezes his hands tighter together, hyper-aware of the blue marks beneath the thin fabric of his gloves, and what they mean. He clears his throat. "Perhaps it is no longer necessary to wear gloves in the penthouse," he says.

Grayson whistles as he leaves the room, as tuneless as he is rhythmless, and as comforting as he is irritating.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I have a lot of feelings about deep platonic relationships and this might turn into a series in its own right (I'm not promising anything god knows I've got enough going on, but this idea might expand)  
> Also if you want you can look at my [bingo card](https://twitter.com/amazingjayn/status/1307992284575805442/photo/1) and yell at me to write stuff.


End file.
